


It is what it is.

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Ending, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bromance, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Nice Mary Morstan, Platonic Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Post-Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-29 21:35:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13935894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sherlock always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage. What happens when he discovers the other side of this picture?





	It is what it is.

**Author's Note:**

> A little effort to cope with Sherlock's sagged face at the end of 'The sign of three'. God it was killing! Hope it soothes that wound to some extent.

**‘Oh, I felt the rush like a rolling ball of thunder’**

  
Sherlock steps out of the wedding hall into the darkness outside. Away from all the music, the dancing, the people and…John. He swings his coat around himself and wears it in a swift motion. Naturally, he turns his coat collar up. A flashback of a familiar moment plays before his eyes.

  
_“Please can we not do it this time?” “Do what?” Sherlock asked. “You being all mysterious with your cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you look cool.” Sherlock’s eyes bewildered with astonishment. “I don’t do that.” He denied in a puzzled tone.  “Yeah you do.”_

  
**‘Spinning my head around and taking my body under’**

  
He inhales a short breath and looks around into the dark, narrowing his eyes to find him. Disappointed. There is no one around to mockingly-compliment him this time for doing his signature act. As soon as the reality dawns upon him, he feels an unpleasant sensation arising in his upper body forcing him to exhale the small amount of air he has been holding in. He lets out a warm breath slowly and watches it intermingle with the cold breeze of London.

  
**‘Oh, what a night!’**

  
The sound of the music fades from a loud noise to a mere whisper as he walks away on an empty street of the city. The surrounding outside is peaceful. Calm. Tranquil. Contrary much to the state of his mind. The loud music earlier was acting as a temporary distraction but as he walks farther, the voices in his head become more clamorous.

  
_“My best friend, Margaret, she was my chief bridesmaid, we were going to be best friends forever, we always said that, but I hardly saw her after that.” Mrs. Hudson sighed._

  
He feels like someone stabbed him with a very fine instrument right into the middle of his chest. (Aah!)

  
_“It’s the end of an era, isn’t it? John and Mary, domestic bliss.” He imagined the smug look on Mycroft’s face._

  
Stabbed again.

  
_“Can I keep you?” Janine asked in flirtatious tone. “Do you like solving crimes?” Sherlock replied. “Do you have a vacancy?” Instead of answering, he glanced over at John downheartedly, who was standing far away from him with Mary._

  
Again. (Ouch.)

  
_“This is what people do, Sherlock. They get married. I warned you. Don’t get involved.” Mycroft declared as a matter of fact._

  
And again.

  
_“She cried the whole day saying, ‘Ooh! It’s the end of an era.’ She was probably right really. I remember she left early. I mean who leaves a wedding early?” Mrs. Hudson said shaking her head in despair._

  
How does it feel like to be stabbed over and over at the exact same point? He had beaten corpses before repeatedly as an experiment to determine the rate of bruising after death. After death. Point to be noted here. He is a living, breathing man. Is he? Apparently he is. Although he feels like death. But the pain that arises in his heart and is being pumped into each one of his arteries along with blood, delivered to his organs and taken up by every cell of his being, forces him to feel alive. It is excruciating. Tormenting. Heart-wrenching.

  
He slips out his right hand from his pocket and places it on his chest as an attempt to soothe the ache underneath. Ineffective. His walking pace has slowed down although his breathing rate and pulse has increased strikingly. He shuts his eyes close and clenches his fingers tightly over his left breastbone. Can he grab his heart this way and pluck it right out of his chest? Impossible. Still, he thinks to give it a try. Another futile attempt. He sighs heavily and lets his hand fall back into his pocket.

  
He walks in a vague direction with no certain destination on his mind. Where is he supposed to go? He thinks of Baker Street. Maybe he will hit himself with a shot of cocaine (a 7% solution?) once he arrives there. Perhaps he may increase the dosage tonight. That ought to make him feel better.

  
But wait. What will John think? He had promised him before his wedding that he would not use drugs from now on. (Bloody hell). Why had he made such a promise? Oh yes! Because it made John happy. Right.

He recalls the night he asked John what he wanted as a wedding gift. John quirked an eyebrow and made such an amusing expression as if Sherlock had asked to marry him. (Strike that). He took a long pause before responding. “You don’t need to get me a wedding gift, Sherlock. I know it’s not the sort of thing that you would do.” John said, smiling gently. Oh how perfectly John understood him!

  
“But I want to give you something.” Words slipped out of his mouth before he could filter them. He probably splattered more emotions with these words than he had intended to. (Damn). Although what he said was true. He never indulged in this sort of thing before but John was an exception to this rule. Apparently, he was an exception to all his rules. He failed to understand why.

  
“Okay..there is a thing.” John said. Sherlock ignored all the questions formulating in his brain and drew his focus back towards John. “Not a thing really. It’s umm..sort of a promise. Will you do it?” Sherlock hadn’t expected this. He thought John was going to make a materialistic demand. A jumper may be. He had burnt one of his jumpers for an experiment recently. But this was quite unanticipated. He opened his mouth to protest a little but John continued and said: “For me, Sherlock?”

  
Oh! This hit him right in the feels. He felt a little weak in the knees but managed to maintain his posture. He was unable to contemplate how three little words from John’s mouth with an added touch of affection made him lose his stance. Perhaps there is another variety of  _three little words_  that might drain the life out of him if John ever said them. The mere thought of it sent a pleasant shiver down his spine. (Strike that as well). John was still looking at him expectantly hoping for a positive answer. He inhaled deeply and collected all possible strength for the thing John was about to ask him to do. “Anything you say.” The only response he managed to blurt out.

  
“I want you to promise me that you won’t do drugs from this day onwards. Okay?” John emphasized on each syllable as he said this to assure that this wasn’t a casual request. He meant it. His tone was stern, like his posture, indicating that he wasn’t just asking Sherlock to do something. No. He was commanding him. Like a soldier.

  
Sherlock wasn’t able to repress his astonishment. His eyes widened a little and lips parted slightly. John had displayed his aversion to Sherlock’s substance abuse on many occasions before but he had never asked Sherlock to discontinue it. He was rather enthralled by this request (Command). No one on this entire planet had the courage to command Sherlock Holmes to do a thing against his own will. Not even his intolerable brother. And there he was, Dr. John Watson, standing in front of him steadfastly with a gentle smile on his face and a gaze firmly locked with his own. Sherlock would have given his life for this man if he had asked for it. But he only asked him to give up an occasional habit. That wasn’t much difficult to do, was it? He reconsidered his thoughts for a while. A few moments later, his eyes softened a bit as he nodded his head in agreement. This insignificant act made John bloom with contentment and Sherlock swore he had never witnessed a more beautiful sight before.

  
He abandons the thought of returning to his home. Home? It isn’t home for him now. It’s  just a toxic waste dump. It was home when he and John returned to it, adrenaline rushing through their veins, after a thrilling chase through the streets of London. It was home when he woke up to the faint sound of a kettle boiling in the morning that John left on the stove to prepare tea for both of them. It was home when they sat on their own chairs and carried on their routine activities; John reading the papers and Sherlock going through his laptop without John’s permission. It was home when they argued endlessly with each other and Mrs. Hudson interrupted from downstairs asking in a loud voice: “Boys! Are you having a domestic again?” It was home when they watched crap telly together at the end of the night till Sherlock got utterly annoyed by its stupidity and John got utterly annoyed by Sherlock and both of them left the sofa to move to their own bedrooms.

  
It isn’t home now. Not without John. If he returns to Baker Street now, the absence of his flatmate (Flatmate? Colleague? Friend?) will only intensify the excruciating, tormenting, heart-wrenching pain in his chest and it will become almost irresistible to inject himself with a dose of cocaine. He has to keep John’s promise at all costs. The agony he feels in his veins is nothing compared to the glow on John’s face when Sherlock agreed to give him the only gift he ever asked for. It’s all worth it.

  
He strolls headlessly in the streets of London looking for a distraction. Probably if he walks all night, his legs will give up at some point and his body will collapse ultimately in some dark corner where no one will bother to find him. (Petrifying). Will John search for him? Will he notice that he has suddenly disappeared from the wedding hall without informing anyone? Will he care about him now that he is married? Too many questions formulating in his mind. Each one of them feels like a pebble dropped in water. Splash. Ripple Ripple Ripple. Unending waves. Unanswered questions.

  
There is a faint sound of music coming from somewhere nearby. (Distraction). He tries to focus on it. It’s coming from a north-east direction. Old music. Probably from the 90s. But there is something else that catches his attention. He has heard this music before. When? Where? Why the sudden quickening of heart beat? He is currently unable to solve this little mystery. There is a strange sensation of familiarity and he feels himself uncontrollably drawn towards the direction of that music.

  
All his senses awaken as he reaches in the vicinity of that place where the music is coming from. He can’t make it out at the moment as there is still around 300 meters to walk to that particular location but he catches a glimpse of dim lights radiating from that place in shades that are ought to create a romantic environment. (A small restaurant may be?) But the music is not particularly romantic in nature. It’s soothing in a way but not the kind normal people will appreciate to be played in the background while they are on a date. He has stalked John enough when he is on his dates with dull, boring and frankly below average females to recognize the difference between romantic and non-romantic music. So probably not a restaurant. He sniffs deeply and picks out multiple scents. Cinnamon, chocolate, vanilla (baked goods?) and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, dominating them all. A café then. That justifies the background music as well. (But why does this feel familiar?) He marches forward to find out.

  
 It is a small café presently accommodated by a tedious crowd. People sitting comfortably on not-so-comfortable seats and babbling about their monotonous routines over a cup of coffee. It’s the last thing Sherlock wants to do at the moment. He shakes his head sulkily and is about to step out when it hits him. He’s been here before with John. Ah yes, now he remembers!

  
They were still on a case that night when John declared that he can’t run after serial killer anymore without fuelling himself up. Besides, they had already informed Lestrade about him and John hoped that the police will eventually arrest that guy. Wheels are more efficient than legs, he thought. Sherlock, on the other hand, was insistent on catching that serial killer himself. But John didn’t listen to another word. He grabbed Sherlock’s left arm and before he could grunt a protest, John shoved him inside a nearby café. As much as Sherlock hated being man-handled like that, he was oddly pleased inside when John treated him this way. Nevertheless, he had his disapproving face on.

  
John ordered two coffees and a slice of cake for both of them. That’s fine, Sherlock thought. Because he was not going to eat anything, anyway. However, he was a bit startled when John asked for two spoons along with the cake. The waitress shot a meaningful smirk at both of them and walked away with their order. Two spoons? One cake? That’s a bit…awkward, isn’t it? (Yeah sharing a cake is awkward but sharing a flat is fine!). John seemed to be completely alright with it. Maybe he didn’t notice the hideous expression on that waitress’s face. Or maybe he was plainly avoiding it. They were mistaken as a couple quite often but John always rectified everyone who eyed them suspiciously. The fact that he didn’t object it that time perplexed Sherlock. He stared at John intently as if trying to figure out this odd behavior.

  
“I am not that handsome, you know.” John grinned and took a sip of his coffee. There was an old song playing in the background. No lyrics. Just instrumental. It seemed to have a calming effect on John as he hummed along with it at irregular intervals.

  
Sherlock was taken aback for a moment. He didn’t notice that the waitress had delivered their order and considering the number of minutes it must have taken, Sherlock concluded that he had been looking fixedly at John for a rather uncomfortable period of time. He picked up his mug and brought it close to his mouth in a slow motion. It was perhaps an instinctive response to hide the irrepressible blush that crept up his cheeks.

  
“You didn’t object this time.” Sherlock peered at John over the rim of his mug, completely ignoring the comment that John made earlier.

  
“Sorry what?” John asked in a baffled tone. “Oh, you mean..about that waitress. Yeah, it was of no use.” He took another sip of his coffee. “Besides, the whole point of correcting her false assumption would have gone to hell if you had kept looking at me like that.” He smirked and diverted his gaze towards another table.

  
Sherlock was almost near to choke on his own coffee. He cleared his throat and endeavored to regain his nonchalance.

  
“I was thinking.”

  
“I figured that much.”

  
“I was thinking about you.”

  
It was John’s turn now to choke on his drink. He put his mug back down and looked at Sherlock, dazed. The waitress had chosen just the right moment to walk into their conversation and place a nicely decorated slice of cake on their table. Just after she left with a quite amused expression on her face, John burst into laughter.

  
“Hah! I always wondered why people misjudge us as a couple. How silly of me!”

He shook his head sarcastically while grinning like an idiot and reached out for a spoon to dive into the heavenly cake. Sherlock couldn’t reply at that moment. He was just lost at the sight of John laughing wholeheartedly after a long time. John seemed to be absolutely hassle-free that night and for a split second, Sherlock forgot all about the serial killer and the mad chase after him.

  
“Oh my good Lord! You have to try this Sherlock. It’s so good.”

Sherlock wiped away his thoughts and focused on the thing which delighted John that much. Just a piece of chocolate cake. Nothing like hunting down a serial killer after hopping on a few roofs and running till your legs fall off. Boring.

  
“I am not hungry.” He provided his most frequent excuse to avoid indulging in normal human activities, no matter how much his body craved for it. John pretended that he didn’t listen to him and placed the other spoon in Sherlock’s hand.

  
“You haven’t eaten anything in three days, you git. Now eat this quietly or I am going to force-feed you.” John tried to use his scariest tone but it was flushed with affection and genuine concern. Sherlock felt the warmth radiating from his words and his pulse accelerated a bit. Although he didn’t want to eat, he grabbed a spoon and took a bite. It was actually good. But he put his spoon down again because he wasn’t supposed to eat anything until the case was solved.

On the other hand, John was really pleased with that dessert. He took another spoonful of the cake and his hand was in mid-air when he saw Sherlock’s mouth opening unintentionally, his gaze fixed on the bite of cake.

  
“I thought you weren’t hungry!” John raised an eyebrow and his lips twitched into a tender smile.

Before Sherlock could say anything, he placed his own spoonful of cake into Sherlock’s mouth. This time it tasted divine. Much better than the last bite. Sherlock almost melted into that flavor and closed his eyes to relish that moment. It was the same cake so why did it taste so different this time? It took him less than a second to reach the right deduction. Same cake. Different spoon (John’s spoon in specific). Fascinating.

  
He opens his eyes and finds himself standing in the middle of a lightly crowded café. The same café that sparked his pleasant memories and filled his chest with a sweet ache. He sees a waiter approaching him to take his order.

  
“Can I help you with anything, sir? He asks politely. Sherlock looks at him from head to toe and disregards the deductions formulating in his mind. He ponders over his question and decides that he should get himself a cup of coffee. Although caffeine is no suitable alternative to cocaine or morphine, but it’s the closest thing to a drug that he can administer right now without breaking John’s promise. Additionally, it might provide him with a mood boost for around 30 minutes.

  
“Black coffee, two sugars, please. I’ll be outside.” He orders abruptly and rushes outside before the waiter has a chance to react.

Outside the café, there are few wooden benches and tables arranged in an organized way that satisfies his OCD for a while. He sits on a bench that is farthest from the café and the people outside it, which is exactly what he desires at the moment. To be in a crowd but not be a part of it. The multitude of people in front of him acts as a diversion from his own thoughts, which may turn him into a ferocious beast if left isolated with them. The waiter delivers his coffee after about 7 minutes and leaves.

  
Sherlock gets entranced by the steam emerging from his coffee mug and the mystified patterns it is forming along its course. In a way, it symbolizes the unusual sensations arising in his chest. He is ablaze inside and the remains of his untouched soul are serving as kindling. Every time he exhales, the burning hot fumes are released along with air into the chilly atmosphere outside. Perhaps that’s why the temperature of the steam and his breath are almost indistinguishable.

  
He struggles to label these complicated emotions but fails to do so. (Why am I feeling this way?) He rewinds his thoughts to figure it out. John and Mary got married. He delivered a speech as John’s best man. Everyone started weeping at some point of his speech and he asked John if he had done it wrong. John got up and hugged him (Dopamine levels increased notably). He solved a case and saved Major Sholto’s life (Adrenaline elevated; comparably less blissful than aforementioned dopamine surge). He played a romantic tune on his violin to which John and Mary danced together. He predicted about John and Mary’s baby. Both of them were ecstatic. He was delighted for them, he really was. John danced away with Mary and then… and then he was left  _alone_.

  
“Excuse me! Can I sit on this bench please?”

A feminine voice interrupts his trail of thoughts. He looks up vacantly and finds a young woman standing near to the bench across his table. She is around 28 years old, going by the bright features of her face and a casual posture. Despite her youthfulness, her dressing choice and body language seem to be defying her physical features. They are far more practical and mature for a woman of her age. She is holding a coffee mug in one hand and a lab coat in other. Probably a doctor. Not necessarily though. He never saw John wearing a lab coat, yet he is the best doctor Sherlock has ever known.

  
“It’s okay if you want to sit here  _alone_. I’ll find some other place. Just wanted to be a little away from all that crowd.”

Sherlock was so engrossed in making deductions that he completely disregarded her presence. His thought process comes to a halt on one word. _Alone_. Something inside him shatters inaudibly.

  
He focuses his attention back on her, particularly on her question. In general, he absolutely detests the idea of being accompanied by another individual at any given circumstances (apart from John; again an exception to his rules). But tonight, something is different. For the first time in his entire life, the notion of loneliness terrifies him. He had led a private life satisfactorily before as well, but that was isolation by will. He didn’t care about anyone nor had anyone to care about him. However, with an unexpected turn of events, he got complemented by the bravest and kindest and wisest human being on earth; John. Now that he was on the brink of losing him, he apprehended that solitude and loneliness are two entirely different concepts, indeed.

  
The woman turns around in prospect of dejection to walk to another bench while he is still loathing the thought of being left alone, twice in a single day.

  
“No wait.” His voice sounds desperate and needy as he calls her. “You can stay…” He realizes right away that he has possibly unveiled more emotions than intended so he finishes coldly with “…if you want.” Thus maintaining his façade.

  
Sherlock has already shifted his attention back to the mystifying patterns of steam as she turns back and sits down silently on the bench across their mutual table. She places her lab coat beside her and slips down a handbag from her shoulder to set on top of it. All these activities are done so quietly that Sherlock wonders whether it is because of his unspoken yet aloud sentiments that silenced her. He turns his coat collar further up as an attempt to create an imaginary wall around him to conceal his emotions.

  
Without glancing at her for once, Sherlock picks up the mug and takes a sip of his coffee. The hot liquid pours down his throat and quenches a few flames inside him. His tense muscles relax for a while as he gasps out a breath. He looks up transiently and catches the eyes of the woman sitting in front of him locked on himself. She is looking intently at Sherlock, analyzing every feature of his face. Sherlock studies her eyes for a moment. He is pretty much used to women staring at him amorously but he is unable to find such intentions in her eyes. Her gaze is piercing through his eyes as if she is looking beyond his imaginary walls. All of a sudden, Sherlock feels suffocated under her heavy gaze. He blinks hysterically and turns his focus back to his coffee mug.

  
“You are heartbroken.” She states in a straightforward manner after a minute of silence.

  
“Pardon” Sherlock lifts his head in surprise to look at her again and pretends that he didn’t hear her correctly. She looks away hastily and picks her mug, completely avoiding Sherlock’s questioning glare. He winces at her ignorant behavior, while she sips her coffee without hesitation.

  
“How can you tell that?”  He repeats his question in different words this time and feels instantly embarrassed about giving away his bewilderment. She peeks at him over the rim of her mug and chuckles.

  
“So you’re not denying it.”

  
“I am not accepting it either.” His tone is much colder than the surrounding temperature. She heaves a sigh and stares at him again, ardently.

  
“You have all the signs.”

  
“What signs?”

  
She inhales a deep breath.

  
“Your body is shuddering slightly even though you’re covered in a thick coat. You look pale and exhausted. Probably you haven’t eaten anything for days. Your hand trembles a bit when you lift your coffee mug which points towards weakness. Plus the fact that you’re distant and lost. I thought earlier that you’re waiting here for someone but nobody comes to a date wearing a fancy suit like that to a casual place like this. So I assume that you’re sitting here alone by choice.”

  
Sherlock is instantaneously blown away by her logical reasoning. He shrinks his eyes to observe the woman before him more carefully, just like he assesses a crime scene. She is wearing light makeup to accentuate her features in a professional way but there are few faded spots, pronounced on her cheeks that unveil her natural shade, slightly dim than the put on products. The smudgy outlines of those spots indicate that they have been washed away unintentionally. (Why?). There are two slender furrows; one on the bridge of her nose and the other below her chin, both of them tapering towards her ears, signifying that she is habitual of wearing a face mask. Her hands have minor cuts that are spread vaguely, probably because of handling fine instruments, and they have a distinctive smell of latex.

  
(Hand gloves, face mask, lab coat and a specific doctorlike way of conversation; all evident of a medical profession. A dentist more likely. The faded spots on her face are a result of being splashed away with water during dental procedures when she sits too close to the mouth of a patient. It justifies the minor cuts on her hands, as well as the faint smell of saliva coming off her, masked satisfactorily by her perfume;  _Chanel_. Right).

  
It took mere seconds for him to reach this inference and Sherlock believes that there is a lot more he can deduce about her but unfortunately (fortunate for her), he is not in his high-form tonight. He shakes his head and recovers his formal self. He can’t afford to be vulnerable in front of a woman. She is still looking at him with a smirk on her face, possibly expecting to be applauded for her reasoning skills.

  
“The _signs_ you’ve just mentioned are medically proven symptoms of depression, anxiety and other panic disorders. I presume you are a ‘touchy-cuddly-feely’ type of person, but to label known psychological conditions as ‘ _heartbroken_ ’ is rather idiotic and unprofessional of you. And I thought you were a doctor.” He chuckles sardonically. “You should probably renew your medical degree that-”

  
“It’s in your eyes.”

  
It appears as if a break is applied abruptly to a car riding at full speed. Sherlock freezes, his words still echoing in the air between them. A short gasp releases from his lungs.

  
“My eyes?” He asks in a quizzical manner.

  
“Yes your eyes, Mr. Holmes.” Sherlock is not startled by this sudden recognition since he has an international reputation and he is well aware of it.

  
“They are brimming with grief. With sorrow. With misery. And…” She inhales a deep breath to complete her sentence. “…With _love_.”

  
Every single word that escaped her mouth somehow turned into drops of fuel, entered into Sherlock’s lungs with air and…boom! A loud explosion occurs inside him. His face twists into a dreadful grimace and he shuts his eyes close to contain the flames within himself. He exhales a hot breath and looks up. She is still looking at him, worriedly this time. (Did she hear the explosion? Was it too loud?)

  
“Are you okay Mr. Holmes?” Her tone is pacific but carries concern.

  
“I am fine.” His voice sounds cracked.

Sherlock breathes in and out multiple times to calm himself down. He takes a few sips of coffee in the anticipation that it might settle the fire inside him.

  
“You can tell me. I am a doctor.”

  
“You’re a dentist.” He rectifies her in a disgusted tone. She tenses for a moment and relaxes instantly. Her lips twitch into a fond smile as if she is pleased by Sherlock’s deduction. (Odd.)

  
“And my job is to restore smiles.”

  
 “That’s a poetic way of describing your profession.”

  
She giggles cheerfully and lifts her mug, her gaze now averted from Sherlock.

  
“No wonder why Dr. Watson admires you so much on his blog.”

  
The unexpected mention of John calms him down at once. Walking, coffee, deep breaths; nothing was helping till now but this soothes him. (What the hell is happening?) Another splash. Ripple Ripple Ripple.

  
“He is a soldier, isn’t he?” She inquires casually while looking distantly at the café. She doesn’t notice the changing expressions on Sherlock’s face.

  
“No, he is an army doctor.” Sherlock replies impulsively. “Which means he can break every bone of a human body while naming it.” His tone sounds lost. He almost laughs to himself after saying this. In some mysterious way, talking about John is helping him.

  
A few moments pass in sheer silence.

  
“Does he…break hearts too?”

  
Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat. He glances at her, unaware of the fact that his eyes are slightly glistening now. (Why is she fanning the flames inside me?) He is unable to retort a response. Verbalize his feelings. But the painful look on his face gives it all away and the woman inhales deeply as she receives her answer.

  
“You know Mr. Holmes, people often say that there is no pain in the world like that of a broken tooth. Even though I am a dentist, I believe they are wrong. There is no pain in the world like that of a broken heart.”

  
“I…don’t…understand…”

  
“You’re in love with him.”

  
A sudden splash of water and the fire within him settles down. A beam radiates that enlightens his soul, which had grown accustomed to darkness. He is finally brought to surface after drowning for an unknown period of time. No more ripples. The waves are reaching their end.

  
_Love_? Is that what this is all about? The complicated feeling he was unable to name till now was love? Is that why he feels harmonious when John is around? When he compliments him? When he makes him tea without him asking for it? When he runs all around London with him? When he shoots a bad cabbie to save his life? When he looks after him? That is because of love?

  
_Love_? Is that why he feels heartbroken when he didn’t even know he had a heart? When John left the flat? When he got married and moved away from him? When he danced away to a new life ahead and didn’t look behind? That is all because of love?

  
Sherlock’s curls bounce a little as he nods his head unconsciously. It is a moment of revelation. At last, all his unanswered questions have been answered. He feels a rush of hormones inside him that he only experiences during a case. But…

  
“But…he doesn’t love me.” He states blankly, in a barely audible whisper, more to himself than to her. His heart breaks into a million more pieces as if it was not shattered enough already. John is married to Mary now and even though he is certainly pleased for both of them, especially for John since he finally found himself a deserving female partner, he is unable to suppress his fear under the shade of happiness. The fear that John will leave him and will never return and he will be left alone forever. Perhaps Mycroft was right after all.  _He has got on with his life._

  
“Doesn’t seem like it.”

  
Her joyful voice breaks the silence and Sherlock raises his lids, which are feeling far too heavy now. The lady in front of him is beaming so visibly that the glow on her face is almost brightening up their surrounding. But she is looking away. (No wait a minute!) Sherlock notices that she is _looking at_ something or…someone. He turns around to follow her line of sight and all at once, he forgets to breathe.

  
A little far away in the street that he walked on to reach this café, there is a dark silhouette of a man, contrasted by the blinding light behind him. A man whose outlines are engraved in every neuron of his idiosyncratic mind. A man whose features he can discern even if blinded. A man he can single out unambiguously in a swarm of people. A man who is eyeing every nook of the street frenetically in search of someone and is out of breath right now, much similar to himself.

  
_John_.

  
Sherlock turns back abruptly, absolutely dazzled by the sight he beheld a moment ago. His heart is thumping against his chest so hard that he fears it might break through his ribcage and set free. Adrenaline, dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin; all hormones have swiftly morphed into firecrackers.

  
He can’t face John, not right now. Not when he is so broken. So weak. So fragile. It’s his wedding night and Sherlock can’t ruin it with his sheer vulnerability and desolation. He stands up haphazardly to dash away somewhere else where John won’t find him, but is instantly stilled by a feminine hand on his elbow. He raises his head and finds that woman gleaming ever so lightly, her eyes sparkling with bliss and gratification.

  
“If he knows how to break, then he certainly knows how to mend as well.” She loosens her grip on his elbow but keeps holding on. Sherlock wonders whether she is talking about bones or hearts…or both. “After all, he is a ‘Doctor’ Mr. Holmes. Give him some credit.”

  
She wraps up her speech with an imperceptible wink-and-smile, which would have added a melodramatic touch to it, and lets go of Sherlock’s arm. He is free to run now but finds himself glued to the spot. Like her words have chained his feet to the ground. With a sharp gasp of air, he turns around again and his burning, aching, stinging gaze meets with John’s.

  
The whole world around them comes to a standstill and John seems to be the only person in motion. He is approaching Sherlock with noticeable aggression, obvious from the facts that he is panting hard and his steps are thudding on the ground underneath (Brace yourself for another punch in the face). What he didn’t notice earlier is that John is still in his wedding suit, suggesting that he went out straightaway in search of Sherlock and didn’t even bother to lose a few valuable minutes to change into something comfortable. (Why is he rummaging around for a madman on his wedding night? Idiot.)

  
While his mind is still cursing John for an appalling depiction of stupidity, his heart is yearning to get close to him. To hear his soldierly-commanding and doctorly-consoling voice. To listen to his absurd ideas and genuine compliments. To lean into his seldom touch. But he is married now and he will move out and Sherlock will be left alone... A voice in his brain reminds him. His heart must have snapped into pieces upon hearing this because the pain has now crossed its threshold.

  
“What in fucking hell do you think you’re doing Sherlock Holmes?” John nearly growls from an insignificant distance and the maddening chaos within Sherlock stills. Like a crying baby is suddenly brought to halt with a snarl of his father.

  
Sherlock parts his lips, with enormous effort, to retort a sensible answer that wouldn’t render him with a bleeding nose. Before he is able to utter a word, John desperately steps into his aura and enfolds him in a warm, compassionate hug.

  
There’s how it goes. No needles. No scalpels. No forceps. No knives. Yet within a flash, the pieces of Sherlock’s shattered, wrecked, broken heart are perfectly mended together. Indeed, John Watson is a remarkable doctor.

  
John’s grip around Sherlock’s shoulders is almost strangulating, which clearly demonstrates that he will not let go of Sherlock this time. Not again. He is muttering all the  _nice words_  available in his limited vocabulary with a raging breath over Sherlock’s coat collar.  _Cock, utter utter cock, bloody moron, you absolute piece of shit…_  The turned-up coat collar is finally receiving its share of mockery fuelled compliments.

  
Sherlock, who was striving earlier to conceal his amenability, surrenders to John’s weird display of affection. He slowly lifts his wiry arms and entangles them lovingly around John’s back. His  _absolute piece of shit_ head lies on John’s scarred shoulder and he inhales deeply to suck its pain within himself. It smells of bravery, fearlessness, heroism and above all,  _John_.

Upon this unexpected reaction from Sherlock, John hushes for a moment. Both of them bask in each other’s warmth quietly as seconds tickle by.

  
Gradually, their elevated breathing and pulse rate drops down to a mutual point. John loosens his hold cautiously after a while but Sherlock opposes this act and nuzzles his head deeper into the curve of John’s neck, tightening his arms around his back. He has unknowingly craved for this warm blanket of an army doctor, all wrapped up around himself, to protect from the internal and external coldness.

  
John chuckles slightly as his chest swells up with adoration for his ludicrous friend. His fury has all evaporated by now. He places his left hand in the sleuth’s dark hair and tenderly strokes through his messy curls. (Oh my God!) Sherlock perceives a strange tingling sensation arising from the point of contact, which travels down his spine, stirring each one of his nerve endings along its route. He almost purrs with an indescribable pleasure. John laughs heartily upon noticing the response his gentle act evoked in Sherlock.

  
“You know, you are a perfect blend of a full grown arrogant cat and a bizarrely clever two year old child.” John reckons with a sheepish grin and continues to untangle Sherlock’s muddled hair.

  
Sherlock breaks into a tender smile and can almost feel his eyes welling up upon hearing this. This unpredictable surge of sentimentality is because no one in his entire life has ever empathized with him this way. Every human being he has encountered in thirty sodding years declared him straight off as a ‘psychopath’. But this eccentric army doctor remarked _‘that was amazing’_  after Sherlock bared his whole life story at a glance. He didn’t flee or told him to piss off. He stayed. And now he is holding Sherlock in his cozy arms, and seeing through his cold skin, a warmhearted human being who has longed for affection and appreciation all his life. If the flutter of blooming sensations in Sherlock’s heart right now for this man is love, then yes, he is undeniably in love with John Watson. His flatmate. His colleague. His best friend.

  
Upon this discovery, a gut-wrenching query ignites within him, briskly raising the temperature of his breath again. Now that John is holding him securely in his arms, he gathers his nerves to ask a question he has been deliberately avoiding this whole time.

  
“John?”

  
“Mm-hmm?”

  
“Do you…love me?”

  
John draws back with a lightning speed and his mouth gapes open. His doctoral hands are still gripping the shoulders of his friend with soldierly force. His wide eyes accommodate to the dim lighting as they scrutinize every inch of Sherlock’s face. He warily drowns into those bluish-green pearls to seek out tease or pretense, which might be the cause of this out of the blue inquest, but discovers nothing except pure innocence.

  
The perplexity on his face softly gets replaced with endearment for this beautiful, innocent, outwardly creature. With a bright glee, he tenderly cups the nape of Sherlock’s slender neck, ducks his  _absolute piece of shit_ head down and places a gentle kiss between his puzzled brows.

  
The tender lips of an army doctor on the sweltering forehead of a consulting detective generate a similar response as droplets of a soapy base trickled onto a burning acid. _John neutralizes Sherlock,_  and vice versa. A warm puff that releases through John’s slightly parted mouth pierces through Sherlock’s skin and its scent blows into every corner of his mind palace. The whole place inside his head is harmoniously echoing with a sweet chant of ‘That was amazing’.

  
However, when a neutralization reaction occurs, salt and water are ought to be produced. Perhaps that is why, the brilliant graduate chemist deems, both of them have tiny sparkles of  _salty water_ in their eyes when they pull apart. Sherlock is flushed up to the tip of his ears and smiling shyly. He hadn’t anticipated such an intimate answer to his curiosity. John turns to his right side after pulling apart and rubs away those barely noticeable droplets from his own eyes before they ooze out, whispering _‘who the fuck is cutting onions around here’_ under his breath. Sherlock cracks a private smile and blinks rapidly to wipe off the traces of  _salty water_  from his eyes as well. It takes a while before casualness seeps into the air again.

  
“Shall I take  _that_ …” Sherlock quirks an eyebrow and clears his throat “…as a positive answer?” He asks as naively as possible, although this time, tease is predominant in his tone. John gawks for a second and then bursts into an uproarious laugh, shaking his head derisively.

  
“God, you really are an  _all-round obnoxious buggering arsehole_ , aren’t you?”

  
Every part of this ridiculous exclamation is dribbling with such fondness that Sherlock whimsically perceives it as  _I love you, you marvelous thing_  and his heart blossoms with euphoria, one that he has never experienced with drugs or crime scenes. Deep creases fan out on his reddened cheeks as his lips twitch into one of his widest smiles.

  
“Yes I am. Yet you still choose to hang around me.” He shots a proud smirk, clearly reminding John of his idiocy.

  
“Yes, even though you’re a pompous prick, yes I do. God help me.” John gulps admittingly. It seems that he has forgotten completely about the fact that he was mad at Sherlock a minute ago for an authentic reason. Because each one of these frivolous terms that are emerging from his mouth sound unlikely to be out of rage or infuriation.

  
Sherlock puckers his uplifted brows.

  
“Is this your standard mode of admiral or am I the only one entitled to it?”

  
John shrugs his shoulders in a buoyant manner.

  
“Best friends are supposed to do this sort of thing, mate!”

  
A jolly wave travels down his spine on the word  _best friends_. Sherlock purses his lips and pretends to mull over John’s remark about best friends. 

  
“Oh really! Well in that case, I am obliged to reciprocate your ‘kind’ gesture. Shit-head.” He replies with an extremely smug look. A flash of bemusement passes through John’s eyes and he grins involuntarily.

  
“You prat. Just let me tell Mycroft that his junkie brother-”

  
Sherlock’s mind gets stuck on one name and he doesn’t listen to the rest of it. There was an answer to a question which had completely slipped out of his mind in this emotional setup.

  
(Mycroft. Of course. After I left the hall, John searched for me but couldn’t find me anywhere, and since Lestrade, Molly and Mrs. Hudson were already around him, there was no point in asking them, so he must have called me on my mobile phone and would have gone mad because it was switched off, well because I didn’t think that anyone would contact me and to avoid further interruption, so he called Mycroft for help and Mycroft traced out my path through the CCTV footage, informed John and that’ s how John got here.)

  
“Bastard.” It comes out intuitively. For once in his life, he is not sure whether to throttle Mycroft with his bare hands or embrace him forcefully till he can no longer breathe. (Interesting that portrayal of two different emotions is leading to an identical consequence in Mycroft’s case.)

  
“What? You fu...No. Jesus Christ. We are not gonna play this fucking game on my wedding night. Save it for another time. Which I am damn sure will come soon because it won’t take you long to piss me off again. Sodding git.”

  
John bites his tongue after uttering the last two words, feeling ashamed for having said them, while Sherlock is standing there cluelessly. At once he realizes that John must have misinterpreted the outright expression of ‘love’ for his brother as an offensive comment towards himself and therefore went out of his mind. Sherlock doesn’t clarify him though. Just stares at him, absolutely fascinated by his reflexive denial to his own terms. (Adorable?) John stares back and within a second, both of them burst out into hysterics simultaneously.

  
A cab halts all of a sudden near the café and its door jolts open. John’s breath entraps within his throat as his newlywed wife walks out of the car. Unlike John, she is dressed in a casual top and jeans at the moment, suggesting that she clearly didn’t consider the idea of tracking down a frenzied detective in her wedding dress as a sensible one.

  
“Ah! Look at you two giggling around here like teenage girls, while I was terrified to death.” Mary pays off the cab driver and advances towards those two gentlemen, who undeniably appear as if someone has knocked the living daylights out of them. “The way John left the hall, I frankly expected to arrive at a murder scene here.”

  
John and Sherlock shoot a momentary look at each other and then rapidly shift their gaze to the ground, terribly failing to hide the mirth that enlivened their features. Mary steps towards Sherlock agitatedly with a clear intention to scold him for his juvenile attempt of leaving the wedding hall without notifying anyone. Sherlock foresees her anger and promptly raises his left hand.

  
“Apologies for interrupting Mary, but if you are about to abuse me for my childish behavior, I’ll have to inform you in advance that John has got you covered in that area.” He states jeering tone and darts a friendly look at John. “Quite well, actually.”

  
The scornful words lingering right at the edge of her tongue vaporize into the air and her eyes grow tender as she averts her focus from Sherlock to John.

  
“There’s the man I married!” She exclaims jovially and brushes her lips lightly against John’s. John returns the pleasure and both of them stand close to each other, Mary’s arm hovering gracefully over her husband’s elbow. John instantly redeems his military stance and his outrageousness at Sherlock, which momentarily got swapped with affection, sparks again.

  
“Yeah, so where were we?” He inquires in a stinging tone.

  
“You were saying ‘sodding git’ and then Mary arrived.” Sherlock replies innocently, his gaze still fixed on the ground with embarrassment, like a child who is about to be grounded for his mischievous conduct.

  
“Yes. That.” John masks his smile with a cough and continues. “Why in Christ’s name did you leave the hall, Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinks frantically and swallows the bitter taste in his mouth. His heart clenches within his chest and with an arduous effort, he sputters out.

  
“I…um… My job was done there…so… I thought it was best to leave...”

  
“No one gives a fuck about what you thought, you rat-arsed lunatic. You should have fucking told-”

  
Mary tightens her grip on John’s elbow, cutting him off, and smiles gently. “Darling, I should mention that you look extremely sexy when you talk like that.” John lifts his brows snootily. “But I think you have amply fulfilled your proportion of cuss words for today.” She pats on his elbow and his proud brows sag down. Sherlock chortles a bit and John shots death glares at him, hushing him in an instant.

  
“What I meant to say, you…” Offensive terms are about to exit his mouth again when Mary gives his forearm a tender squeeze “…you sweet, little marshmallow…”

  
It slips out unintentionally and Sherlock absolutely loses it this time. He laughs his head off with interspersed rumbling sounds and both, John and Mary, freeze at their spots. They are eye-witnessing the human version of a spotted hyena. It is a sight so rare, so utterly bizarre that they can’t help but marvel at it. Both of them stand still, fearing that a single movement might disrupt the serenity of this exceptional view. Soon the whole ambiance around them is smoothly resonating with lively chuckles of a mad detective.

  
Sherlock manages to compose himself after a minute or two. He hasn’t laughed so wholeheartedly for a long time. Perhaps it is a peculiar trait of this place only. Some of the old scenes from a pleasant memory are replaying themselves before his eyes. Like a déjà vu. Only this time, it is him who broke into fits of laughter instead of John.

  
“I am sorry about that…you were saying?” He tries to suppress an uncontrollable smile. John and Mary are instantly brought back to senses. They share a fleeting look and John clears his throat.

  
“Ah.. yes…I.. erm..” He endeavors to make out a sentence but stammers a lot during the process because he is still spellbound by the sight he beheld a minute ago. Mary notices the hypnotized eyes and sputtering speech of her husband and shakes her head, smiling to herself. She lunges towards Sherlock instead and delicately clutches his hand.

  
“Nothing more to say. Come on, let’s go home right now.” She instructs kindly and nudges his hand a little.

  
“ _Home_?”

  
Sherlock asks blankly in a grave voice, as if every wisp of liveliness from a moment ago has been sucked out of him. He speculates what Mary meant when she said home. She is definitely referring to her current home; the one where the newlywed couple was already living together and is now about to embark on a novel journey. But why is she asking Sherlock to come along? It is not his home. He has no home now anyway, he realizes. His freshly illuminated heart sinks into gloom once again.

  
“221 B, Baker Street.” Mary responds exuberantly, her tone as vibrant as her gorgeous self.

  
Sherlock lifts up his scarcely drenched lashes with such rapidity as if electrocuted directly by a lightning bolt of thunder. His mouth jerks open under the similar stimulus. His exceptional senses that he has always trusted so much seem to be betraying him tonight. Maybe he didn’t hear that correctly. She can’t be talking about his trashed flat. It is just not possible. Either he is going crazy or Mary is out of her mind. He turns his inquisitive eyes towards John. (Not that he is any less of an idiot but he might provide a reasonable answer.)

  
“If you had patiently waited a little bit longer instead of running away like a mad-hatter, we would have told you about this decision.” John heaves a sigh and steps closer to Sherlock. “Mary and I had been planning this for a month. Thought that we would surprise you. But Nooo! Turning all the bloody criminals of this world into saints seems very much possible but surprising Sherlock Holmes? No way in hell.”

  
This doesn’t help. This doesn’t help at all. All it does is make things much worse for Sherlock. He shuts his eyes close.

  
(No, this can’t be happening. No. Maybe I am dreaming. But I didn’t sleep. Can a person dream with open eyes? Metaphorically yes. Scientifically no. No? Mary and John? Baker Street? Home? Maybe I am hallucinating. Yes, that is possible. But I didn’t take any drug. No. I promised John I won’t. Just caffeine. Caffeine is not a hallucinogen. Then how is this happening? Is it real? Is it an illusion? NO. NO. NO.)

  
His jaw is still hanging down and oxygen, nitrogen, carbon dioxide, water vapors, burning fumes, energy, life, everything… Everything inside him is draining out of the space between his trembling lips. He immediately seals his lips too. Suddenly he feels very cold. Inside or outside? Can’t tell the difference. All the warmth has seeped out.

  
Although his left hand, in particular, feels warm. (Why?) He wants to open his eyes. But he is afraid now. There is fear. Fear of all the bright and beautiful shades converting into blackness. Fear of these newfound emotions turning into oblivion. Fear of John and Mary dispersing into the air, leaving him all on his own again.

  
The warmth is now radiating up his cold arm into his chest. That’s it. He has to find out. He opens his eyes as slowly as possible. Even with his blurred vision, he is able to make out Mary, who is standing right in front of him, still holding his left hand and looking lovingly into his eyes. His mouth gapes open.

  
“Why are you looking like that? Did you think that we would get high on the news of one baby and forget about the other one?” Mary raises her brows questioningly. “If that’s true, then I swear to God, I’ve not seen a bigger fool in my life.” She stands on her tiptoes and with all her friendly-sisterly-motherly affection, plants a tender kiss on Sherlock’s cold-stricken cheek.

  
Sherlock breaks down right there. Everything that he thought was deceptive and illusory a moment ago was infact real the whole time. It wasn’t a dream. He wasn’t hallucinating. John and Mary didn’t disperse away. He can’t be expected to hold himself upright anymore. His heavy head automatically falls down on Mary’s shoulder and the floodgates open. Something wet oozing out from his eyes is getting absorbed in Mary’s shirt. (Oh the neutralization reaction again.)

  
Mary enfolds her left arm around Sherlock’s back and pats him gently. Her other hand is still clasped with Sherlock’s, who is squeezing it tightly now. She smiles against his temple and shifts her glassy eyes towards John. John is standing still, probably entranced by his insane friend again. But his eyes… his startling blue eyes are unsuccessfully attempting to hold back tears.

  
“Oh dear God! What am I going to do about you two idiots?” Mary pauses patting Sherlock’s back and holds out her hand to John. He lurches forward and instead of taking her hand, throws his arms around the two people that he loves and cares about most in the world. His right hand lands into those soft, tangled, messy curls again that reflect their owner, and his left arm suspends loosely around Mary’s back. He murmurs  _Shh, quiet down, it’s alright now, shh, we’re not going anywhere_  in a sob-addled voice near Sherlock’s ear while his fingers caress his dark, wild hair. It’s like taming a violent thunderstorm till it settles down to feathery drizzles.

  
Sherlock inhales a very deep breath to draw in everything that escaped his lungs. He feels alive. He feels warm. He feels loved. This, right here, miles away from his stinky flat, at the backside of an outdated café, in the arctic breeze of London, under the coverlets of familiar arms feels like  _home_. If the burning sensations he suffered ten minutes ago were analogous to hell than this homely feeling is akin to paradise and he can live in here forever.

  
“Look at us! Three full-grown adults sniveling here like newborn babies. God. If we aren’t the most atypical trio of absolute crack-heads!” John scoffs, breaking the stretching silence.

  
“We should get that on t-shirts.” Mary adds thoughtlessly and all three of them quiver a bit under each other’s hold as they crack a perky smile. The whole atmosphere tints once again with vivid shades of humor and bliss and enthusiasm and jollity and friendliness and love.

  
Sherlock raises his head, which feels much lighter now, and drapes his arm around Mary’s shoulder blades. His reddened cheekbones are still glistening with thin trails of salty water although his eyes are sparkling with zest once more. He shots a smirky look towards John.

  
“Perhaps we could borrow some from John. Sure he must have loads of such t-shirts by now.”

  
Mary gleams widely and her hand sweeps from Sherlock’s hand into the crook of his elbow. While John steps back with a baffled expression. He glowers at Sherlock but after intaking his soaked lashes, crimson cheeks and parched lips, his eyes soften considerably.

  
“Ah, the arrogant sod is back again! Thought we lost you for a moment.” John chuckles and playfully ruffles through his curls one more time. On the verge of withdrawing his hand, he delicately brushes his fingers against those chiseled cheekbones, thus breaking away the remnant trails of pain and distress. He uplifts his eyebrows in an inquisitive manner wordlessly asking  _are you okay?_  And Sherlock nods with an incredulous smile.

      
“Well, that was one incredible roller-coaster of emotions we rode on today.” Mary declares with a sigh of relief. “But I believe it has to reach an end. Now I am married and pregnant and very tired. So before I have a hormonal breakdown, can we please go home?”

She stretches the word please and tosses pleading glances towards Sherlock and John, but is rewarded with nothing except sly looks and mischievous grins.

  
“What?” Flabbergasted much, she inquires at once. Sherlock chucks a lop-sided smile and John mirrors his expression. Both of them notice caringly as Mary experiences her first mood swing caused by pregnancy, quite unaware of it herself.

  
“If one of you doesn’t speak right now, I’ll twitch your ears and drag your sorry arses all the way to Baker Street. Do not underestimate my-”

Her scowling tone is immediately cut off with two simultaneous kisses from Sherlock and John on either side of her cheeks. An irrepressible blush embellishes her stunned face right away. Both of them step back gently and bite their lips to hold back an impish chuckle. Mary pulls herself together and tries to look particularly solemn but fails.

  
“Cheeky bastards.” She lets out candidly and Sherlock and John suffer another fit of uncontrollable laughter.

  
After a while of settling down, John slides his arm around her waist and Sherlock places his gentle hand on Mary’s, one that is already clutching his elbow. They pace forward together to walk down the street when all of a sudden, a sparking realization immobilizes Sherlock.

  
That female dentist.

  
He turns around abruptly to find that strange woman and express his gratitude for holding him down to the ground, for helping him discover his feelings and for preventing him from fleeing again. The vacant bench thoroughly disappoints him. He lets go of Mary’s hold and strides in the direction of that bench, paying no heed to John and Mary calling his name out in a puzzled manner. Once again, he begins to doubt his extraordinary senses which weren’t aiding him tonight. It was beneficial enough that he didn’t believe in the preposterous fantasies about angels otherwise given the current situation, he would have mistaken her for one.

  
Sherlock stands proximate to the bench and snuffles deeply. His bloodhoundish nose picks out a faint scent of  _Chanel_  unerringly. (She was real). He shifts his probing gaze towards the table and detects a moist loop on the wooden surface and across it, a small parcel with café’s label on it. He lifts it and inspects every surface and angle for any discreet clues. Nothing. Carefully, he opens the parcel. As his gaze falls on the thing inside it, his pupils dilate with complete astonishment. A heavenly slice of dark chocolate cake and a little note that read:

  
_‘This might cause a toothache in future but it’s fine. Some relishes are worth the pain. You know that now, don’t you? :) P.S. If you do suffer a toothache, you have a dentist at your service.’_

  
Sherlock’s heart melts into a puddle of pure contentment; if that isn’t the most bizarre way to put it. He gasps pleasantly and finds himself beaming like a fool. In a barely audible whisper, he says  _Thank you_  and a gentle blow of air carries his gratitude away. Hurriedly, he folds the note and places it in his coat pocket as he hears John and Mary’s footsteps approaching him.

  
“Sherlock what are you- Wait a minute. Is that-” John asks peeking over his shoulder, glancing at the memorable piece of cake that he cherished the last time when he came to this place with Sherlock.   

  
“Yes, John.” Sherlock smiles reassuringly, thrilled by the fact that John still remembers it. Ever since that day, the captivating flavor of the cake and those moments were etched in his own mind as well. It wasn’t romantic, as he abhorred the whole notion of romance, but delightful nonetheless. John looks through his ebullient eyes and after a few moments, smiles back broadly, as if he read Sherlock’s thoughts and correlated with them.

   
“Oh Sherlock! You’re an angel.” Mary steps forward and a wave of desire travels down her body as she catches the sight of that tempting dessert. “God I would have killed for a chocolate cake right now.”

  
Sherlock giggles at her for misinterpreting that he bought it and claiming him as an angel. Though in a way, it is true that it was bought by an angelic person but he decides to keep it as a secret of his own.

Mary draws near to Sherlock and both of them set their eyes on the cake, as shockingly enough, Sherlock himself feels impatient to dive into its sweet realm. Their mutual eagerness shatters down as John urgently plucks out the box from Sherlock’s hand and turns around, such that both of them are standing at his back with their jaws hanging down.

  
“Not here. We’ll eat it together when we get home. Alright  _love_?”

John closes the box, taking no notice of the changing expressions of the persons standing behind him.

  
Mary thinks of this moment as the perfect opportunity to tease them and looks at Sherlock in a quizzical manner, pretending not to understand at all whether who between the two of them was being called as  _love_  by John. Sherlock reads her face and glances back down instantly, fighting the irresistible color that made its way up his cheeks. John spins back, catches their ridiculous expressions and sighs.

  
“I was talking to Mary.” He clarifies in a voice that comes out much shyly than expected.

Mary mumbles a playful  _Ooh_! and smiles to herself, absolutely satisfied for avenging the little mischief earlier. Sherlock, on the other hand, raises his lids and hesitantly clears his throat.

  
“Yes…Yes of course.” He looks at Mary. “Don’t worry Mary.” Then shots a meaningful gaze at John. “I am entitled to an entirely different set of endearments.” And his lips twitch into a friendly smirk.

  
John shakes his head while laughing secretively after understanding the hidden meaning of his statement. He reaches close to them, drapes one arm around Sherlock’s shoulder and entangles other with Mary’s.

  
“You two quite high tonight.” Sherlock tilts his head and raises an inquisitive brow. “Yeah yeah okay... Me too. So let’s just head back to Baker Street before we pass out here. Hmm?”

  
Sherlock and Mary nod in agreement and succumbing to their exhausted state, lean their heads momentarily on John’s stern shoulders. John smiles, whispering  _nutters_  under his breath. After a few peaceful moments, the three of them compose themselves to travel back to Baker Street, where they will not only share a cake or a flat, but everything that comes along their way.

  
And as the three-  _four_  of them walk down together on the empty street, each knowing that they’ll be all  _normal_  again by the next sunrise, Sherlock ponders over the happenings of this miraculous day. Who would have known that when he strolled down this street alone fearing lonesomeness, he would walk back _home_ with two people who love him for  _him_  deeply. Certainly, he hadn’t anticipated it.

  
That reminds him of this new feeling he unearthed today. Love, he concludes, is a paradox. Like his best friend, John Watson. Who breaks bones and mends hearts. He always assumed love as a dangerous disadvantage, but tonight he discovered the other side of the picture as well. It hurts and it heals. It burns and it thaws. It is bitter and it is sweet. It is the illness and it is the cure. It is okay…It is not okay…

  
_It is what it is._  


End file.
